


Four Things Major Adams said to Flint McCullough, and one thing he hasn't said.

by mcicioni



Category: Wagon Train (TV)
Genre: Cross-generational slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same words, different perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Things Major Adams said to Flint McCullough, and one thing he hasn't said.

  
**"We've got a job to do."**

When he's mad at Flint McCullough, Major Adams wonders whatever possessed him to take him on as a scout. He was the best of the men who had turned up in St Joseph, Missouri – but there were only three of them. On his first look at him, Adams liked what he saw. Early thirties, clean and freshly-shaven; tall and rangy, dark reddish-brown hair; freckles, he must have been a carrot-top as a youngster; a wide, open smile; he looked spunky and honest. Then Adams found out that there were no bounties on the man's head; that he was fast and accurate with rifle, Colt and knife; he spoke some Spanish, some Comanche and some Sioux; he had lived with Indians and knew some parts of the trail like the back of his hand. He'd worn the wrong color in the war, but the army garrison vouched for him. Was that enough? Adams wasn't sure, but time was running short, and McCullough was hired, doubts be darned.

Halfway through the first trip, as the days follow one another after the train has left St. Joe, Adams relaxes a little. He may (he often does) get mad at McCullough, but he doesn't really regret hiring him. He often accuses him of going off to have fun while getting paid for riding scout, but they both know he doesn't mean it. He finds McCullough a little too jaunty, too confident, and cheerfully insubordinate. However, McCullough is an excellent scout: brave, resourceful, ready to ride the extra mile or ten on his own to find safe passage or check for dangers, even though he shirks heavy manual work when he can. And he's an honorable man: straightforward, loyal to his friends, fair to enemies.

All this is important, because what's foremost in Seth Adams' mind is that the train should run as safely and smoothly as possible. The wagonmaster's the one with the responsibility for the people, the wagons, the horses, the stock and the supplies. So Adams worries about droughts, rainstorms, dust storms, fevers, Indian attacks, raiders and assorted outlaws, not to mention internal problems such as folks not getting on, fighting, at times killing one another. And then there are couples getting hitched, babies being born, and people who fall ill or die one way or another, and their funerals are short and quiet, and their graves are left untended by the trail.

McCullough is willing and able to help out with nearly all these things (except marrying people, which he's not allowed to do, and delivering babies, which he probably isn't all that keen to try), but work isn't what matters most to him. Moving on is. Seeing what's beyond the next hill, what's across the next river. Meeting new people, lending them a hand, and saying goodbye. Never settling down. He's a drifter, a tumbleweed.

* * * *

 _Tumbleweed_ , the Major calls Flint when he's mad at him. Also _saddle tramp_ and _work-shy jasper_. But this is the way he talks to people he approves of. With people he doesn't care for, his eyes are ice-cold and his voice flat; with Flint, and with Bill and Charlie, his eyes are warm as he calls them names. Anyway, Flint gives as good as he gets – _Glad to see you appreciate me, Major_ , or even _Slavery's illegal now_. And a few times on this first trip Flint has caught the Major off his guard and heard him mutter something that could have been _Well done_ or _Good work_.

In St Joe, Flint had been offered a job as a shotgun rider with Wells Fargo, and his old pal Cliff Grundy had asked him to go along on a prospecting trip. But he chose to sign on with Seth Adams' wagon train, even after asking around and being told about Adams' temper and authoritarian ways. He thinks he made the right choice. Adams is old-fashioned, but open-minded. He's never lived with Indians, but he respects them as friends and enemies. He's willing to listen to women with a past and men with shameful secrets, and he has a soft spot for children. He's nearly always fair to the people who work for him and the people in his charge. He can be abrupt when he lays down the law, and that's a problem because Flint hasn't been taking orders from anyone much since the war ended and resents it when anyone pulls rank. But the two of them haven't come to blows yet, though that could well happen any time.

Flint signed on for months of sleeping on the hard ground after days spent in the saddle; for the recurring disappointment of finding dry waterholes or rivers too swollen to cross; for conflicts with stubborn ranchers, various Indian tribes, trigger-happy soldiers and settlers; and for conflicts within the train, people with different beliefs, different backgrounds, different languages, who only have one thing in common, the hope for a new start. But he also signed on for the moments when he feels useful – the pleasure on the people's faces when he tells them that there's water ahead, or that an Indian chief has allowed them to shoot five buffaloes to feed their families, or that the trouble with a rancher has been sorted out, and the train can cross the ranch land.

And at times it's not bad to ride back towards the train as night falls, and to spot the circle of wagons as the shadows lengthen down a hill, and to know that there's a plate of stew waiting for him, and a few laughs, and maybe some quiet conversation with the Major over a chessboard. It's fun to play chess with him – he tries to create distractions with reports of new babies and ailing old folks, while at the same time waiting for a moment of inattention, so that he can pounce. And he's a fair loser – as he tips his king in surrender, his blue eyes are warm as they meet Flint's, and Flint enjoys victory and peace in the same moment. For a short while he feels grounded, contented. And for the time being, he'll stick to this job.

  
 **"You're late."**

Flint never had a watch. He looks at the sun or the moon, and that's enough for him. His notion of time is flexible. When he was a kid at Fort Bridger, Jim Bridger and all the other white folks who knew Indians talked about "Indian time": Indians would get around to doing things when they were ready, and there wasn't much point in fretting and getting impatient. Flint thought "Indian time" was a sensible way to live, and thinks so still. But the Major is a retired army officer; the heavy timepiece he wears day and night is a part of him, and he's fussy about punctuality. Flint has learned from Bill and Charlie that every time he doesn't come back to the train when he said he would, the Major becomes impossible to live with; and when Flint does turn up, a few hours or a few days late, the Major is fit to be tied, demands explanations, and scoffs when Flint says that he came across a long-lost friend who needed assistance, or a girl he used to know, or folks who had a problem that he could help straighten out.

But there's something else as well, something Flint never explains. At times, after he has got the mail or found the waterhole or negotiated with the Army or the Indians, he just needs some time on his own, away from the train folks and their squabbles, with nothing to do but sit in silence. He looks at the treetops, his back warmed by the sun, letting thoughts flow in and out of him. He enjoys having quick solitary swims in a river or a waterfall. He's happy making camp at sunset, rolling a smoke as his supper is roasting on a spit, the only noises around him the calls of thrushes and whip-poor-wills. He loves being woken up by the morning sun on his face as the sky changes from grey to blue. Afterwards he rides back to the train refreshed, and when the Major demands to know where in tarnation he's been, he just half-grins and answers _Long story_ or gives the Major his warmest smile and asks _Did you miss me?_

Occasionally he thinks the Major could do with a couple of days by himself as well. He's the kind of man that probably would enjoy fishing. But if Flint as much as hinted that he and Bill could run things while the Major has a break, the Major would throw something at him, or at the very least shout at him to get lost.

Going fishing with the Major, away from the train, is one of the fleeting daydreams that cross Flint's mind now and then when he's on his own. He plays with it for a short while, picturing the two of them arguing about the best way to cast a line, keeping track of each other's catches, eating what they caught beside a campfire, and maybe comparing what each of them knows about the stars. Then he laughs at himself, shrugs, mounts up and rides back to the train, where he's bound to get yelled at.

* * * *

Adams sends Flint off to the next town to post the letters written by the train folks and get their mail (he should make it in two days, one day there, one day back). Or tells him to ride ahead to check if the next waterhole still has water in it (five or six hours there and five or six hours back, even allowing for resting his horse and getting something to eat). Occasionally he sends him to buy fresh horses (two or three days to the ranch, two or three days back) or to find out the mood of the local Indians regarding the train going through their land (this should take from a few hours to several days, depending on the season, the weather, the food and water situation, and whether there have been any recent attacks on the villages).

The time comes when McCullough should by all that's reasonable show up, and there's no hide nor hair of him. Adams swears to himself that this time round he won't wonder aloud where the devil McCullough is, but the question just keeps bursting out of him, and he gets mad at himself and takes it out on Charlie or Bill or anyone who makes the slightest bit of trouble. He pictures Flint in a saloon, surrounded by good-time girls ( _So help me, I'm goin' to fire him the moment he shows his face_ ). Then he imagines him spending precious time on the problems of someone who isn't part of the train ( _If I've told him once I've told him a thousand times, the train comes first_ ). Then he starts picturing Flint captured, held for ransom, tortured, jailed, drowned or lynched, and he holds up the train, leaves Bill in charge, and goes to look for him. ( _And the Lord help him if he ain't dead or dyin'_.)

Half the time, he had guessed right.

The other half of the times, he and Charlie are on the first wagon when Charlie, who's got sharp eyes, spots McCullough's Appaloosa on the top of a rise, or sees a small cloud of dust on the horizon and guesses that Flint is galloping towards them. Adams stops the train in case McCullough is being chased by Indians, or possibly by the law, or has some urgent danger to warn him about. And that sorry excuse for a scout comes up to the wagon, cool as a cucumber, and grins and says _Howdy, Major_ like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and then, without one gol-darned word of apology, hands Adams the mail, or the dispatch from the Army post, and asks what went wrong in his absence, or says he's starving. Adams scowls and growls something about gallivanting all over Creation, and if McCullough teases him with _You couldn't get along without me_ he snaps back _Don't tempt me, I just may try it_. He orders McCullough to get out of his sight, and waits until he's gone before he lets out a deep sigh and reminds Charlie that they haven't got all day, the train must get moving again. He's still mad, of course. But a little smile seems to be coming on, all by itself, at the thought that for the next few hours he only needs to worry about the rest of the train folks.

  
 **"Keep your eyes open."**

Seth Adams is grateful for his friendship with Charlie and Bill. The three of them go back ten years, to the beginning of the Civil War. Then, Bill was his sergeant and Charlie was his cook; now they are his two assistants, who stand beside him if there's any trouble with the passengers, who protect him like two fierce guard dogs and who rarely question his orders. When they're away on some errand, he worries about them, but knows that they won't get into too much trouble – Bill will probably lose some money at cards, Charlie may get a little drunk, but usually neither of them ends up risking his life.

With McCullough, it's different. When he's around, he annoys the heck out of Adams and questions his orders at least half the time. When he's not, Adams is not sure if life is more restful, more boring, or more worrisome.

And now Adams has got into the habit of telling Flint to keep his eyes open. He knows that Flint is more than capable of looking after himself, but he says it every time Flint's about to ride off somewhere, or he hollers it at Flint's back as he is galloping away. Maybe it's payback for the teasing Adams gets when Flint returns. Or maybe Adams isn't really talking to Flint, he's saying his own wish aloud, or he's covertly reminding the Lord to keep an eye out for Flint when the young fool next finds trouble, or finds a way of making it.

And when trouble comes, all Seth Adams can do is pace up and down the corridor of an army fort while the army surgeon takes a bullet out of Flint, or chain-smoke and drink coffee outside the wagon where Flint is delirious with the effects of a snakebite, or will his hands to stop shaking as he helps whoever is best qualified at healing (usually Charlie Wooster, but sometimes an Indian medicine man, and, on one occasion, feisty old Cassie Tanner) cut out the arrowhead or cauterise the wound or pour some antidote down Flint's throat.

If he's honest with himself, he remembers that every single one of those times he sent a couple of words to the good Lord. _Please let him live_ , which probably is a fair request. Or _Please don't let me lose him_ , which probably is not, because Flint isn't Seth Adams' son, or younger brother, or in any way his to lose. This last thought makes Adams frown and ponder. Does he think of Flint as the brother he never had or the son fate has denied him? No to both. Flint belongs to himself. Friendly to everyone, not tied down to anything or anyone. Up to now he has returned to the train the couple of times he's quit or been fired, and he always turns up like the proverbial bad penny every time the Major is about to set out from St. Joe, but there's no guarantee that he'll stick around forever.

Every time his thoughts wander in this direction, Adams tells himself to quit it. The good Lord has answered his requests so far; every time things have gotten rough, Flint has recovered and got back on his feet and into his saddle far earlier than he should have – taking no notice if Adams has ordered him to stay put – and gone off in search of trouble all over again. Adams can't ask for anything more than that.

* * * *

Danger has been Flint's life ever since he was in his teens. He's used to it, and in a way he enjoys the rush of fear followed by the rush of determination. So far he's been lucky – he has nearly drowned in rivers, nearly fallen off mountains, nearly died of thirst in deserts. He's been kidnapped, shot, knifed, beaten up, bashed unconscious, staked out in the prairie. And he has survived – as the Major puts it, he's as strong as a horse.

The Major usually adds _but with less sense_.

There are a few moments Flint remembers well. The time, on his first trip as a wagon train scout, that he drank from a waterhole before he stopped to notice the remains of dead buffaloes all around the water's edge. He doesn't know how long he staggered along on foot, with his face, neck, eyeballs fried by the sun – all he can remember is that he held onto his consciousness with all the strength left in him, and allowed himself to let go only after the Major found him. Flint smiles to himself at the memory of crusty Seth Adams cradling him in his arms and giving him small sips of water, and not hollering, just calling his name and talking softly and sounding scared.

Or the time, a year or so later, when he quit because the Major ordered him to do some heavy job, and then he ended up as slave labor for the crazy owner of a mine. He tried to organize a couple of escapes, and failed – but he didn't give up hope, because he knew the Major would come and get him out of there eventually. He also knew the Major would be mad at him, and at his captors, at his cowed fellow prisoners, and most of all at himself. He was right on all counts. And he enjoyed greeting the Major with _What kept you?_ instead of _Thank you_.

The Major always tells _him_ to keep his eyes open, and then sometimes doesn't practice what he preaches and takes unnecessary risks. Like the time when an innocent-looking young man joined up, and he turned out to be a cold-blooded killer who was after the Major for court-martialling him years ago. The guy would have gunned the Major down without blinking an eyelid if he hadn't been shot in the back by a young mother he had tormented for half the trip. Or the time he went off on his own, unarmed, to face most of the Chiricahua Apache nation, and was attacked and captured by young Swift Cloud. Usually Flint isn't around when these things happen, he only hears about them when he gets back to the train, and is angry at himself for not being there to protect the Major, and at the Major for getting into more trouble than he could handle.

Flint spends a lot of time riding alone, and one of the good things about this is that he has the time to think things over, from every angle. A couple of times he has wondered if the Major was a kind of a substitute for the father Flint had lost when he was thirteen. He isn't: Flint is sure of that. Jim Bridger was his second father, who showed him how the Indians tried to go on living after the white men took over most of their land, who taught him to hunt, to cook, to look for water and to follow tracks, and who dusted the seat of his pants when Flint deserved it. Now Flint is thirty-four, he no longer needs a father. He could be a father himself, if the thought of settling down didn't scare him worse than deserts, mountains and enemies.

The thought of marriage crops up now and again, and Flint turns it over in his mind. Maybe he's just been unlucky: every time he seriously thought about it (and he can count the times on the fingers of one hand), something went wrong. Jean, the sweetheart of his early youth, was murdered by some renegade Confederate soldiers. Sister Rita – with some sorrow, but without hesitation – chose God over him. The Russian countess and the Mexican aristocrat went back to their countries to fight for what they believed in. Maybe when it comes to spending the rest of his life with a woman, he doesn't have what it takes, and never will. The strength to take on responsibilities, perhaps: whenever he pictures himself married, he sees himself painting the fence, taking the family to church socials, attending working bees with other family men, never again riding off on his own.

Sometimes, when Flint is alone and away from the train, he finds the courage to admit that there's another side to this. The thought of a life without Jean, without Rita, is a stab in his guts every time; but a life without the presence of Seth Adams is – unthinkable. Flint just can't picture it. But he will have to, sooner or later, when the Major decides to retire, buy himself some land, and put down roots.

He feels cold when he thinks of it. But there's still time.

  
 **"That'll be the day."**

Flint is known to be a skirt-chaser. He looks at any woman who's young and fancy-free, enjoying the symmetry and grace of her face and figure, and the softness of her voice; she usually looks right back at him, and things develop from there. It's fun; it's heartwarming for a while; when things get passionate they both enjoy it, and when things come to an end they are both a little lonely, and then Flint catches the eye of another girl.

He doesn't know when he first started looking at the Major. Maybe he never even started, maybe it was something that grew all by itself. At some point or other Flint noticed that Seth Adams' hands are large and fleshy, the fingers square and calloused. They're usually on his hips, or stuck into his gunbelt, or curved around a cup of coffee. They are heavy when they hit an opponent, gentle when they help a woman, and capable with wagon wheels, harness, bullwhips and firearms. Flint caught himself wondering what it would be like if these hands were to hold his shoulders, or frame his face, or squeeze his waist and pull him close; immediately his blood ran a little faster and a little heat rushed to his face and neck. This startled him at first: he couldn't understand how he'd come to be interested in an older man, grey-haired, who carries several extra pounds around his waistline, and who grumbles and growls like a bear with a sore head. After all, the few men he'd been with had all been young, lean cowpunchers, stablehands, or Indian braves. He couldn't figure out why he'd get little stabs of desire between his legs just looking at Seth Adams' fleshy lower lip and imagining what it'd be like to take it between his own lips and suck it and flick his tongue around it. Or by watching Adams at night, asleep in his hammock – the only time he's ever quiet and peaceful – and wondering what it'd be like to wake up next to him, away from the train. Whether Adams would find something to grumble about the moment he opened his eyes, or whether he'd reach for Flint and .. .

Flint still can't figure any of it out. He's stopped trying. He just accepts that he's likely to be ambushed by little daydreams – laying his hands on each side of Adams' strong neck, filling them with the other man's sturdy build; running his lips down the knobs of his spine; tasting those square fingers, sucking them one by one, and tensing in the anticipation of sucking something else. He wants to make Seth Adams arch with desire, he wants to make him breathe faster and ask hoarsely what the devil he's waiting for. He _wants_.

At the same time, he knows there's no point in wanting. Especially not Seth Adams, who only looks at women, and not all that many of them either. When Adams settles down in California, it won't be long before he finds a sensible, warm mature lady who will smooth his rough edges and take him to church socials and pot-luck suppers.

And whatever Flint might want is out of the question. It'll never happen. As the Major himself is quick to tell Flint or Charlie every time they say something over-optimistic, _That'll be the day_.

* * * * *

Seth Adams sowed a few wild oats after leaving Nebraska, and a few more in his thirties. He remembers what it was like to feel desire run through his skin, stir his flesh, but he's been a long time alone, and that's all he's got now, memories. After Ranie Webster died, he had some fond feelings for that lady journalist, C.L. Harding, in spite of her crazy ideas about suffrage and equality between the sexes. But nothing happened. She said a wistful goodbye to him, wiped her eyes, squared her shoulders, and went off to San Francisco to work on her newspaper. And recently there was Beth Pearson, who was a dead ringer for Ranie. Adams asked her to marry him, and she accepted, but Ranie's ghost was between them all the time, and they parted, regretfully and affectionately. And now he's alone for good, away from the seesaw of desire and pain. He glances at the way a woman fills her blouse and skirt, at the way a girl moves as she dances, he listens to a woman's laughter or song, and his body stirs a little in response. Or – but he'll only admit this to himself, with considerable unease – he notices the way a man's arms and back move as he lifts or bends, or his eyes may dwell for a moment too long on younger men's bodies as they bathe in creeks or tubs. Well, these things still happen, but he prides himself on his common sense and when he catches himself lusting, he reminds himself that he can look, but he can no longer touch, and tries to turn lust into fondness. He succeeds, nearly all the time, but it's hard work. Like everything in his life.

Flint McCullough, on the contrary, seems to do everything effortlessly. Adams can see right through Flint, how his confidence comes from being good at his job and easy on the eye, with his broad shoulders, slim waist, and long legs. He hooks a leg around his saddle horn, rolls himself a smoke one-handed, and tries to charm everyone, women, men, and probably also horses, mules, birds, lizards and snakes. He's a born flirt; he'd bat his eyelashes at Charlie Wooster if no one better came along. If on occasion Flint tries to soften Adams with that slow smile that lights up his whole face, freckles included, and if Adams feels a quick shudder in his pants, well, he just sends Flint off to earn his wages, and once he's gone the shudders subside soon enough.

In four years, Adams'll turn sixty. After what happened with Beth Pearson, he's been sure that he's missed his last chance, and he knows the only dignified solution is to call it a day and spend his last years by himself, doing something useful and not too heavy. So he's planning to stop running wagon trains and take up something easier – maybe he'll take over a relay station on the way to California, or just live on his savings and write _Tales of a Wagonmaster_ or _Memoirs of the California Trail_. He's had enough disappointments in his life and he's through hoping for companionship.

And now, if he has little daydreams about something that would be impossible, with someone who's the wrong age and the wrong sex and seduces a girl a week, all he needs to do is laugh at himself, _That'll be the day_.

Like all strategies, these work, some of the time.

  
 **Neither of them has the words for it**.

The relay station is in Nevada, between Pyramid Lake and Lake Tahoe, on the way to Sacramento. It's kind of small (the pension of a retired army officer doesn't stretch all that far) and has an old well and a roof with a tendency to leak, but it's sound enough. Adams manages all right, with Flint in the winter and a couple of hired hands in the summer, when Flint's feet get itchy and he goes off to take jobs as a stagecoach driver or shotgun guard, or rides scout for other wagon trains. In a few years, that'll be over – more and more railroads are being built, and soon wagon trains will be as dead as dinosaurs.

The day he parted with all he'd saved as a wagonmaster in exchange for the title to his new property, he saw McCullough just as he stepped out of the Carson City bank. Leaning against a post, arms crossed, without his usual teasing smile, Flint was trying to look unconcerned, but he was pretty tense about something, if Seth Adams was any judge of character.

"I've got a proposition for you, Major."

And he steered Adams into the nearest saloon. Tense or not, he shot down all of Adams' objections like a row of clay pigeons at a county fair. Two hours later they were both a little drunk and more than a little worn out, and Adams sighed, shut his eyes and gave in. Now Flint has a ten percent stake in the relay station ( _You rob a bank or something? No. I don't spend all my earnings on entertainment, as you have believed these four years I've been riding scout for you_ ). And some of the other money he earns goes towards repairs, good horses, supplies for the winter.

They've had two winters together so far. In the daytime, they tend the horses and the stock, do repairs, and take turns cooking and doing laundry. Amazingly, Flint does his share fairly cheerfully – maybe it's the ten percent stake, maybe he's slowing down a little. Evenings are quiet: they drink coffee, play cards or chess, don't talk much. Flint reads the books he occasionally buys in the towns he visits, Adams writes _Memoirs of a Wagonmaster_. Putting the right words together isn't all that easy. He'd be more at home writing reports, as he did every night on the trail, but he actually believes that his memoirs will be of interest – maybe even of use – to a few people, so he pushes on. Once or twice a night he gets stuck and starts chewing the end of the pencil; Flint comes to look over his shoulder and makes a suggestion, and sometimes he gets a swat, sometimes a _thank you_.

Of course they argue. About the best way of fixing the well pulley, about the best horse feeds, sometimes about politics: Adams is a stalwart Republican because he knew Ulysses Grant in the war and trusts him, Flint sort of supports the Democrats.

They haven't come to blows yet, though that could well happen any time.

In the first winter, one evening in November, something happened in the stable. It kind of happened on its own, without any lead-up. They were talking about baling hay or something, and Adams was making a point, and Flint contradicted him, and as he was speaking he put his hands on Adams' shoulders, on each side of his neck, and just kept them there, looking straight into Adams' eyes, swallowing a little. Adams looked him over, reached out and pulled him closer. He never thought it would be so straightforward. And he never guessed he'd be so satisfied. And so happy.

Sometimes, when they're in bed together (straw and hay are fine once or twice, but at Adams' age a bed's infinitely preferable) he thinks he's too abrupt, too rough. It's always a pleasant surprise to see that under these circumstances Flint – who's always so ready to question, argue and protest when he's on his feet – doesn't mind being taken in hand. And on a few occasions the reverse is also true. Scary, but exciting. It makes him feel twenty years younger. Well, maybe ten.

Adams knows what the Good Book says about what he and Flint do, whatever the words for it are. But the Good Book also says it's all right to have slaves and make animal sacrifices. Adams has decided there's not much point in worrying about it, and hopes the Lord knows that what he feels for Flint – whatever the words for _that_ are – is honorable. He hopes that when the time comes he'll be able to enter the Lord's house justified. All he can do is hope.

He tries not to think much about the future either. He's not an imaginative man and he's used to facing each challenge as it comes, be it a river crossing, an outbreak of fever, or someone trying to kill him. If Flint ever met a woman and decided that what he wanted was to get married, Adams reckons he'd be able to carry on by himself, one day after another, one step after another, waiting for the pain and emptiness to subside, like he did when he lost Ranie. He reckons he might even like to get to know Mrs McCullough and the little McCulloughs.

But there's no sign of it happening. Yet.

All things considered, life has given him enough: pain and happiness roughly in equal proportions. And his life now is really worth living, whether or not things last. When he dies, he'll die content, as well as – he hopes – justified. That's it.

* * * * * *

Flint has made a couple of trips with Chris Hale. Hale's a good wagonmaster: he's educated, he's quite patient and he speaks softly. Flint gets on well with him, but he's training young Duke Shannon to take over as scout. Duke is shaping up well, and maybe next year will be the last time Flint rides scout for a wagon train.

When spring comes, Flint's usually quite glad to head out on his own. But when summer's over and Wells Fargo lays men off, or Chris has seen his wagon train safely to California, Flint's glad to ride back to Nevada. He goes through the gate, unsaddles his horse, pushes his hat back, grins at Seth and says _Howdy_. Then he strides into the house, stretches his legs out in front of the fire and soaks it all in before he goes to clean up.

The day he talked Seth into letting him have a small stake in his property, he was half scared Seth would tell him to get lost and half scared of being bored out of his mind, like he sometimes was at Fort Bridger as a youngster. But he isn't a youngster any more. He's thirty-five going on thirty-six. And after all these years, as an adult, he has a home again.

Of course there are arguments, doors slammed, words spoken that they regret afterwards. But maybe that's what a home means for a grown man. Someone you can shout at, but who's going to be around. Sitting on the porch or at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table, no need to speak. And at night, being able to say what you don't have the words for with your hands, as you and he discover each other's desires: sometimes you tickle and grab and stroke in silence, sometimes you just mutter urgently _here_ and _again_ and _now_ , free to demand, free to take. The pleasure of smiling and speaking against another man's mustache – something strange at first, familiar and exciting now. The pleasure – mixed with embarrassment at first, easier now – of letting someone else climb into the driver's seat and take the reins.

They've been to a few church socials as well. Seth dances with the good-looking widows and mature unmarried ladies; Flint avoids the minister as much as possible and flirts with anyone between the ages of ten and eighty who wears a skirt. The two of them tease each other about it as they're riding back to the relay station. In the months they're apart, Flint wonders if any of those mature ladies would be a better prospect for Seth – they're the right sex, and could make a real home for him, be his helpmeets instead of – whatever _he_ is. He wonders if Seth thinks along those lines as well. He wonders what he'll do if anything like that ever happens. Then he stops wondering, and goes to tighten the harness of the stagecoach team, or rides off to look for water, or gets hold of Duke and shows him how to squeeze a drink out of a cactus.

Sometimes, in the months they're apart, he meets a good-looking girl. He finds the easy smile and easy words that serve him well on these occasions; they enjoy a night or two together, and say goodbye. He's done it all his adult life, it's a habit. But it's a habit he's gradually losing, because these dalliances, pleasant as they may be, mean very little to him now.

When he and Seth talk of what they've done in the months they've been apart, neither of them mentions women.

These days, when Flint thinks of marriage, he sees it as a remote prospect. He has most of what he needs in Nevada – time on his own and a gruff, kind, exasperating, surprisingly passionate companion. Who puts up with him most of the time. And who would say something like _When God shuts a door, He opens a window_ – and he'd be right, apart from the mention of a God Flint no longer believes in. Now, Flint has somewhere to belong and someone to belong with. It's far from perfect – yet he seems to have made a choice. He's through drifting. He's as settled as he'll ever be. He might even say he's spoken for.

He grins to himself, a little ruefully, then starts thinking about urgent tasks at hand, like when it's going to be the best time to take the new mare to stud at McCord's ranch, or how he's going to get out of painting the roof, or whether he can talk Seth into taking half a day off, to ride to Pyramid Lake and catch some fish. They could eat what they caught beside a campfire, and maybe compare what each of them knows about the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> 1: This is almost, but (I hope) not quite "curtainfic".  
> 2: All my thanks to Miriam, who still patiently corrects my linguistic and narrative blunders.


End file.
